


Before you can say Jack Sloper

by FrancesHouseman



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, One Shot, Sex Pollen, weird wizarding farming practices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 12:40:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17960717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancesHouseman/pseuds/FrancesHouseman
Summary: “What kind of idiot thinks that flying oxen are cutting edge farming technology in the twenty first century?” Draco says.





	Before you can say Jack Sloper

 

**_Hogwarts, 1996_ **

Harry follows Malfoy down to the lake. Hermione would disapprove if she knew, but she’s halfway through a stack of potions texts in the library, and Harry’s not going to tell her. Ron is _still_ out at the quidditch pitch, honing his keeper skills. Harry had been out there with him, but he had decided to call it a day when his fingers had begun to cramp on the broom-handle, so he’d left Ron to it.

He hangs back far enough that Malfoy can’t hear his footsteps but there’s no danger of being seen beneath the invisibility cloak, so he’s close enough to hear the voice hissing, “Psst, Malfoy,” from behind a boulder at the lake’s boundary.

The boulder belongs to a small formation of rocks, grouped together to form a natural hideaway. Draco glances around before climbing over the rocks and down, out of sight. Harry creeps after him, determined to put a spanner in Malfoy’s scheming, and to find out who his Slytherin collaborator is. But it’s not a Slytherin, Harry realises, staring in disbelief at the scene below; it’s Jack Sloper, seventh year Gryffindor beater, and Malfoy is… he’s…

Malfoy’s fingers make quick work of Jack’s zip fly, Jack’s robes shoved aside at Malfoy’s eye-level, because Malfoy is _on his knees_. He pulls out Jack’s _cock_ , like it’s no big deal and starts working it matter-of-factly to full hardness with his hand. Not a word is exchanged between them. Malfoy is focussed on Jack’s cock and Jack is staring into the middle distance.

Harry clings to the boulder. Bare moments ago he had felt daring and infallible, and as agile as a cat burglar. Now he feels like a petrified lump of clay, or like a thing that has been dropped from a great height.

“Come on Malfoy,” Jack says, twitching his hips impatiently. Malfoy takes Jack’s cock into his mouth in one long slide and _sucks it_.

“Nng,” Jack grunts, his fingers taking hold in Malfoy’s white-gold hair. Malfoy’s eyes are shut fast, and Harry watches, mesmerised, as he bobs his head, a shining pool of saliva gathering at the corner of his mouth and falling in a drop that rolls down his chin and leaves a silver trail of drool. Malfoy’s throat bulges with every thrust and a single frown-line furrows his brow. 

Harry can’t breathe and he can’t look away. He doesn’t want to look away.

“Y-yeh,” Jack stutters, stilling his hips on a forward thrust, and Malfoy splutters, chokes; spilling drool and… Jack holds Malfoy’s head ruthlessly in place as he comes down his throat.

Draco stands afterwards, swaying only slightly and wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Harry can clearly see the tent of his erection, even under the cloak of his robes, but it doesn’t seem to bother Malfoy. His self-assurance falls quickly back into place and he regards Jack with a bored expression. _Did he swallow it?_ Harry thinks wildly.

“Thanks,” Jack says, with a cool nod. Fortunately, he jumps over the boulders on the other side of the hollow; Harry might not have been able to avoid discovery if Jack had come his way. He may never move again.

As soon as Jack is out of sight, Malfoy spits. He wipes his mouth again with the same sleeve and opens his robes. _Oh Merlin, he’s going to-_ Harry has time to think, before Malfoy has his own cock out, pink and slender, wanking himself quickly with his eyes, once again, scrunched shut. His lips are screwed together in an expression of pain and he sets a brutally fast pace.

It doesn’t take long. Harry watches in deep sympathy as Malfoy’s body starts to jerk with the spasms of climax. Malfoy’s face clears beatifically and his grey eyes open wide as he comes, staring at the sky and _right through Harry_.

Harry’s body had been in no way prepared for any of it, and the surprise of Malfoy’s eyes looking through him is the final straw. He bites down on his knuckles, fighting to stay silent as his insides clench and seize. His cock throbs, trapped between his body and the unforgiving stone, and he comes in his pants, twitching and thinking, _Draco’s like me. Draco likes boys._

 

 

**_Shropshire Countryside, 2011_ **

Lambent grass is a magical crop, and Seamus Finnigan is the first wizarding farmer to grow it successfully on an industrial scale, thanks to the post-war demand for softlux potion. Softlux is a mild stimulant, which has the effect of subtly lifting a drinker’s emotional numbness, just barely enough that the drinker feels a gentle empathy for others; not too little, not too much. In short, it allows victims of psychological trauma to feel normal again without having to confront all the bad shit first. It’s controversial, and Hermione has been loudly opposed to prolonged use, much to Seamus’s annoyance, but it’s undeniably popular.

In nature, lambent grass is fertilized by pixie dust. Fertilized flowers are easy to find because they shine with their own light source, hence the name. Since pixies are small, only one or two fertilized flowers can usually be found in any given area. Seamus had thought long and hard about this problem and come up with the hairbrained solution of using _flying oxen_ to spray his fields from overhead with synthesised pixie dust.

It’s the launch of the ‘Cowduster’, as Seamus had taken to calling it, that they’re all here to celebrate. Harry doesn’t really understand _why_ he had to use flying oxen but then farming isn’t really his area. It’s a magnificent sight: Four white animals canter across the field, a good ten feet above the lambent grass. Dust sprinkles down, gleaming like muggle glitter in the sunlight as it falls. Seamus had managed to wheedle Harry into attending the launch as a celebrity, since Harry still owed him a favour for the loan of his Swiftwing broom, and Seamus is a bastard who doesn’t forget.

There are three journalists in their group, including Geraldine Sweetsing from the Prophet, who probably only deigned to come at all because of Harry. Geraldine is standing beside Harry in fact, so he’s surprised to identify Rita Skeeter’s bouncing curls in a larger press group that’s hurrying towards them with flashing cameras. It’s not Skeeter’s usual gig; not enough opportunity for gossip and backstabbing.

The new group of journalists are pointing excitedly at the field. The sections of field that have already been sprayed are pulsing with a gentle yellow glow, although it would look like a field of ordinary rapeseed to a muggle, thanks to a mild vagary glamour. The lambent grass is tall, perhaps six or even seven feet, and it seems to be twitching in the middle. There must be an animal in there, Harry surmises; a rat, or maybe a puffskein. Harry hopes the dust won’t harm whatever it is that’s making the grass quiver, because it’s undoubtedly covered in the stuff by now.  

Seamus, who had been looking well pleased by the new arrivals, loses his smile as it becomes clear that the rabble pointing excitedly at the field are not, in fact, pointing at his magnificent team of oxen, or at the glowing crop, but at something else that’s making a path through the lambent grass and moving rapidly in their direction.

Harry draws his wand and charges towards it. He flails into the lambent grass and collides with a sparkling, wild-eyed Draco Malfoy.

“Malfoy?”

Draco is rake-thin and dressed in clothes unsuitable for anything other than visiting nightclubs that have the word ‘den’ or ‘dungeon’ in their names. He’s red-faced and clearly on the run from the press, and he’s also glittering with pixie dust like something from another world. Like Christmas come early. “Potter?” His grey eyes look right at Harry and he’s breath-taking.

“What are you playing at?” Harry demands, while simultaneously dragging Draco further into the lambent grass and safely out of sight because, yeah, he’s been chased by the paparazzi a few times himself, and it’s not an experience he’d wish on anyone. “Where’s your wand? Why didn’t you apparate?”

Draco shakes himself violently free from Harry’s grasp, the panic on his face morphing quickly into anger. “You fucking _arsehole_ ,” he says, pulling a short wand from his jacket. It’s twisty and gnarled, possibly made from ancient olive wood.

Harry grips his own wand tighter in response but has the grace to mutter, “Sorry, I forgot.” Draco’s actual wand, the one that chose him in Olivander’s all those years ago, is still captive in Harry’s dresser drawer gathering dust. “I suppose you can’t…” he gestures at the strange stubby wand.

“No I can’t fucking apparate with this substandard piece of shit. Satisfied, Potter?”

A gleeful voice from much too close-by crows, “They’re over here, I can hear them!” Harry grabs Draco’s arm and side-along apparates them to his living room. Or at least that’s where he tries to apparate them to, but they actually land on the pavement outside Grimmauld Place instead.

“Oh, right. I forgot about the secret keeper thing.” Harry says, feeling foolish.

A flurry of cracks sound in the small park across the street. To a muggle ear they might sound like a spontaneous flurry of applause. They both grimace. “Hurry, Potter,” Draco hisses, “They’ve followed us.”

“Harry Potter’s residence is at number twelve Grimmauld Place, London,” Harry says quickly, and the house comes out of hiding. They slip inside before the reporters have seen them and Draco slides down the inside of the floor until he’s sitting with his hands over his face. Harry is momentarily distracted by Draco’s half-open shirt and the leather trousers, but startles out of it when Draco starts to laugh.   

It seems unbelievable that Harry’s day has gone so far sideways that Draco Malfoy, clad in leathers and hysterical, has ended up _in his house_. “Err…” he says. “It’s not a side-effect of the pixie dust is it?”    

This only makes Draco giggle harder. “What is _wrong_ with the world, Potter?” he wheezes, when he can catch his breath. “I was nearly hit by a _cowpat_.”

This sets him off again, and Harry takes him by the elbow, deciding that action is required. “Come on, up you get.” Draco allows himself to be helped to standing before shrugging himself free. “You should probably wash it off,” Harry tells him, and leads the way upstairs. Draco follows him, huffing and snorting quietly as the hysteria works its way out of his system.

“There are… a few bathrooms,” Harry says, embarrassed, when they get to the one he prefers on the first-floor corridor.

Draco rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, you’re a socialist martyr, Potter.”

Three disgustingly fluffy giant bath towels have been left on the towel rail, by Kreacher. Harry throws one at Draco’s head. “You take the second floor one then. I’m using this one, it’s bigger.”

Draco smirks, and _what the hell?_ His left ear has started to glow faintly. Harry moves to touch it and Draco bats his hand away violently. Suddenly it’s glowing brightly, soft light flooding the bathroom. Draco glances around, confused about where it’s coming from.

“Uh, Malfoy? Your ear is glowing.”

Draco’s face says _oh shit_ for a moment, his hand flying to his ear, but he rallies and says tightly, “Probably a side effect of the pixie dust. All the more reason to get it washed off.” Harry watches him hurry to the next flight of stairs, a golden glow lighting the corridor as he goes.

Harry hadn’t really wanted a shower himself, but he kind of feels like he has to now, having claimed the bigger bathroom. The water takes its sweet time heating to an acceptable temperature and then he realises that Draco is going to be stuck in the other bathroom until Harry finds him some fresh clothes, so he doesn’t have time to enjoy it anyway.  

 

****

 

“Do they fit?” Harry asks through the door. In the end he had given Draco a large pile of his own clothes to choose from, including a set of pyjamas. He desperately wishes now that he _hadn’t_ included the pyjamas. Draco is going to mock him for making some kind of unsubtle come-on, and he might even be right, even though it was a _subconscious_ come-on; really more of a Freudian slip.

“They’re fine, Potter,” Draco says, sounding flat. He emerges in a pair of Harry’s well-worn jeans and a Greenday t-shirt.

Harry gapes at him. Both of Draco’s ears are glowing. The right ear is gold and the left ear is red. He looks like some kind of bizarre Gryffindor flare. They’re _throbbing_. “I think you’ve been fertilized by pixie dust,” Harry says in awe.

“Fuck. Off,” Draco grits out between clenched teeth.

“We need to call Hermione.”

“We are _not_ calling Granger.”

“St Mungo’s then.”

“ _No._ ”

“Your choice, Malfoy. Hermione or the hospital. Which is it going to be?”

For a moment Draco is tense and Harry thinks he’s going to bolt, but then his muscles relax. “Fine, call Granger,” he says, looking daggers at Harry. They could almost be sixteen all over again.

 

****

 

“Of course we’ve washed it off,” Harry says to Hermione, “It’s the first thing we did.” It’s actually the only thing they did before calling her, because in Harry’s world the next obvious step in any given crisis is to call Hermione.

“Well, okay, I mean, that’s always a good first step,” Hermione says, earnestly. “Leave it with me Harry, and… be _careful_.” She directs a meaningful look at Draco.

“I’m not going to steal the silver, Granger,” Draco drawls.

Hermione says, “Hmm,” like she doesn’t believe him. “I’ll go and do some research,” she says, and the idea seems to brighten her up. “Bye Harry. Keep an eye on the knives.” She cuts the connection too quickly for Draco to respond and leaves him glowering at the empty fireplace.

 

****

 

“They’re still there,” Harry reports grimly, twitching the curtain closed.

“Brilliant.” Draco sips his tea (black with lemon - _you can’t put milk in Earl Grey, Potter, you philistine-_ ) and sighs. “If they could catch the two of us together, preferably up to no good, it _would_ be the scoop of the decade,” he reasons.

Harry experiences a shiver of arousal at the thought of getting ‘up to no good’ with Draco, and wonders if it’s a possibility. Ron would have an aneurism. In Harry’s t-shirt, the fading dark mark is visible on Draco’s forearm. It makes him look edgy, like a muggle rock star. It’s an abomination, of course it is, and Harry _knows_ it’s wrong, but it’s also turning him on like crazy. He can’t help it, Draco is just so _sexy_. Thank Merlin he isn’t a legilimens.  

“What kind of idiot thinks that flying oxen are cutting edge farming technology in the twenty first century?” Draco says.

Harry should probably defend Seamus, since they’re friends and fellow Gryffindors and so on, but privately he agrees, so doesn’t pass comment. “What were you doing in that field anyway?” he says instead. “Couldn’t you have just gone home? The Manor has enough wards to keep out aurors, never mind the press.”

“They’ve done something to my flue,” Draco admits, setting his mug on the coffee table. “They seem to know when I’m coming and going, and where I’m coming or going _to._ ” He scowls at Harry. “You know, if I could only retrieve my original wand, life would be massively improved. Unfortunately, some brainless war hero type stole it from me years ago.”

“Oh, right. Sorry. _Accio wand._ ” There are a couple of knocks and creaks from upstairs and then Draco’s wand comes zooming in. Harry catches it with seeker reflexes that are still serving him well.

He opens his mouth again to explain that Draco really needs to win his wand back if he wants it to work properly, but Draco casts, “ _Expelliarmus!_ ” demonstrating his own reflexes and grinning triumphantly once his wand is back in his hand.

It’s endearing actually. Teenaged Draco had always been too self-conscious to allow himself to appear openly happy, even amongst his own friends, but it’s the second time today that Harry’s seen him smile without the sneer and cynicism. “You can stay, for tonight, if you want to,” Harry offers, determined to make it sound sensible instead of sleazy. “It’s pretty late, and if you haven’t apparated since you were seventeen you should probably practice a bit before going far. And I can, you know, keep an eye on you because of the-” he makes a two-handed helpless gesture to convey _because of your weirdly glowing ears_.

Draco’s left ear pulses brighter yellow, like it knows it’s being discussed. He regards Harry with a narrow look, passing his wand from hand to hand. “Alright,” he allows, and then, more stiffly, “Thanks, Potter.” It’s a tentative half-smile at best, but Harry thinks it counts. It’s definitely not a sneer.

                                                                

****

 

Draco comes knocking at Harry’s door at 1am. His earlobes have swollen to the size of coat buttons and the left one is glowing brighter than ever. Harry touches it and it flares madly. Draco flinches. “Fuck,” he says, in a weird choked voice.

 _Yes please,_ Harry’s body says, in no uncertain terms. “We should go to St Mungo’s,” Harry says, trying to keep his voice steady.

“No!” Draco stands in his doorway, pulsing gently. His right ear is barely glowing at all, only the faintest red, but his left ear shines like a beacon.

“Come in?” Harry offers, mostly he needs to sit down before he embarrasses himself. Draco Malfoy at his bedroom door asking for help whilst dressed in Harry’s own pyjamas is a situation beyond the scope of his self-control.

It’s an embarrassingly huge bed in Harry’s room, so they’re not uncomfortably close with Draco sitting against a post, cross-legged at one end, while Harry sits with a pillow in his lap, diagonally across from him at the other.

Apparently they’re not going back to sleep for a while. “So, why were they after you anyway? The press, I mean,” Harry says. He can sit up and talk for a while if that’s what Draco needs to do.

“I’m supposed to marry,” Draco says. “That’s what it’s all about.”

“But you’re…”

It hangs between them and Draco considers him, like he’d been sure that Harry was too stupid to pick up on the fact that he was gay, even though Harry’s own sexuality has been a matter of well documented public record ever since the blow-out with Ginny. Draco sighs. Harry imagines that he’s annoyed at having to recalibrate his stupid-ometer. “At least four of my immediate forbearers were raging poufters, Potter. It didn’t stop them marrying women and producing heirs.”

Ginny swears she let it slip by accident, whilst drunk, but Harry suspects it was her revenge. They’ve made it up since, and Harry’s careful to stay on her good side these days. He’s been fantasizing about Draco’s mouth ever since the thing with Jack Sloper in their sixth year. Would he have known Draco was gay if he hadn’t seen him with Jack? Do other people _not_ know? “But you can’t-”

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, Potter.” Draco’s right ear flares red and the light in the room changes to orange in the blend of colours from both ears. Draco seems oblivious. “Do you have any other suggestions? It’s not like the Malfoys have a great reputation to fall back on right now, just our money. A ‘good match’, as Mother keeps calling it, could save the family name. There’s not much I can do.”

 _Me_ , Harry thinks, out of left field. _You could do me_. They sit in silence. Draco becomes aware of the lighting he’s providing and cringes. Interestingly, the glow dims, the red going very low. The golden glow from his left ear is still enough to light the room. It’s pulsing gently.

“Look, Hermione said she’d do some research,” Harry says, trying to sound neutral. “Do you think you can stick it out until the morning? Maybe stay in here where I can keep an eye on you?”

“I’m surprised she didn’t demand that you kick me out-”

“On your ear?” Harry laughs.

“Wanker,” Draco mutters. “I’m not sleeping on the floor.”

They sleep top to tail. It takes Harry a really long time to get back to sleep with the insane presence of a Malfoy in his bed. The pulsing gold of Draco’s left ear is still bright, even though he’s lying on his side and trying to smother the glow.

 

****

 

Harry wakes first and gets out of bed quietly. Draco is sleeping, rolled onto his back. His lobes are still enlarged but they’re not glowing at all, which has to be a good sign. Harry creeps downstairs to fire-call Hermione.

“Oh hi Harry.” Hermione looks much too awake. “I’ve been up for hours.”

“You’re far too cheerful for,” Harry glances at his watch, “Nine thirty on a Saturday morning.” He stifles a yawn.

“Where’s Malfoy?” she says, trying to look around him.

“Still sleeping. I think it might be wearing off.”

“Oh, well. That’s a relief. You know, the lambent grass isn’t actually fertilized by pixie dust,” she says, slipping into lecture mode. “Pixie dust is a pre-condition for fertilization. The plants fertilize each other but only when they’ve been made ready for fertilization by the pixie dust.”

“What does that mean, made ready for fertilization?”

“Well, in plants I suppose it’s some kind of magico-chemical reaction,” Hermione muses, “But in people, pre-conditions for fertilization usually mean _other things_.”

Harry doesn’t like where this is going. “What _other things_?”

“Oh, don’t be dense, Harry. Did Malfoy seem to be acting weird to you? Maybe like he was feeling aroused?”

Harry tries to clear his throat and inhale at the same time, and ends up in a strangled coughing fit.

“What’s the matter? You didn’t have sex with him did you?” Hermione sounds more interested than scandalised, which isn’t right at all.

“No! Of course we didn’t!” Harry might be having a minor panic attack.  

“Do I need to come over there?”

“NO!”

“O _kaaaay_.” Hermione’s head in the fireplace takes a thoughtful bite of toast. “Anyway. I was thinking about why his right ear might be glowing red. It’s interesting because the plants only glow golden. There have been cases of pixie dust induced lust before, but as far as I know nobody has ever been coated from head to foot in the synthetic stuff.”

“Lust?” Harry says, stupidly stuck on that part. Had Draco been experiencing _lust_ in Harry’s bedroom?

“Do you know the muggle saying, left for love and right for spite?” Hermione asks, ignoring him.

Harry casts his mind back over his uncomfortable primary school years. “Yeah, maybe. It rings a bell. What does it mean?”

“It’s a muggle superstition. If your ear burns for no apparent reason, it’s supposed to mean that someone’s talking about you. If it’s the left ear -love- then they’re saying something nice; if it’s the right -spite- well, not so nice.”

“So, someone’s discussing Draco when his ears glow?”

“No, I don’t think so. The pixie dust seems to both enable a flower to be ready for fertilization and signal that it’s ready. I think it’s affecting Malfoy the same way; turning him on and signalling when he’s…”

“Ready for fertilization,” Harry finishes fatalistically.

“Does his right ear glow more when he’s angry, would you say? When he’s spoiling for a fight?”

Harry thinks about Draco’s irritation when he thought Harry was telling him what to do. “I… shit, maybe? His ears weren’t even glowing this morning when I-” how to explain why he would have seen Draco sleeping? “-when I looked in on him. He’s still asleep,” he says lamely.

“Well, that just goes to prove the point,” Hermione says. “He wouldn’t be feeling turned on or angry in his sleep would he? Unless he was having a dream,” she adds, looking thoughtful. “Would you say that he was dreaming when you ‘looked in’ on him.”

“Uh, no?” Harry blushes. “I don’t know. His earlobes have swollen.”

“Interesting. Look, why don’t you call me back when he’s awake. Ron’s out fetching _Advances in Magiculture_ and _The Pixie Encyclopaedia_ from the Ministry library for me. They should have more information.”

 

****

 

“Did you sleep okay?” Harry asks when Draco emerges, because they had really made progress the day before, with the whole behaving like grown-ups thing.

Draco takes his hands away from his ears. Both ears have started to glow again, albeit faintly, and the lobes have swollen even more.

“Are they… sticking out more?” Harry asks, because there just isn’t a nicer way of putting it.

“Coffee,” Draco says, morosely.  He takes the chair next to Harry, positioning himself perfectly for Harry to monitor the low pulsing arousal being broadcast, if Hermione is to be believed, by the glow of his left ear.

Kreacher pops into the room, bringing the smell of freshly brewed coffee with him.

“Oh thank Merlin.” Draco holds the coffee mug under his face and just breathes it in.

 _They_ are _sticking out more_ , Harry thinks.

“They are not,” Draco says. “It’s your overactive Gryffindor imagination.” He takes a sip of coffee.

Harry’s mind actually goes blank for a moment. Snape would have been proud.

“Why on earth would I be thinking about sex?” Draco fixes Harry with an annoyed look, although his ear gives him away. Then his eyes go wide in realisation.

“The left one broadcasts arousal, or at least that’s what Hermione reckons,” Harry says miserably. “We think the right one glows red when you’re angry.”

Draco’s right ear rises to the challenge.  

“In fact, we think the pixie dust is making you feel, er, aroused, when you wouldn’t be feeling it. Um. Normally.” Harry feels quite sad about that actually, now he thinks about it.

“I think I’d know if I was being forced to feel something,” Draco snaps, and immediately looks mortified.

Harry had felt envious of Jack Sloper for approximately three days after watching him with Draco, until he realised that _he_ wanted to be the one on his knees. He’s spent the fifteen years since wanting to do what Draco did for Jack, _to Draco_ , hair pulling, cock worshiping, ruthless thrusting, the works; and in all that time he’s never wanted it more than he wants it now.  

Draco gawks at him. The kitchen couldn’t be brighter if someone had fitted a lighthouse in its centre. “Well that explains a lot,” he croaks, and moves his chair cautiously away from the table to give Harry room.

 _Oh fuck yes,_ Harry thinks, going to his knees.

If Harry had ever managed to live out this particular fantasy at school then he would have had to struggle with a gag reflex, get used to the smell and taste of cock and worry about his technique, and all the other self-conscious angst that goes hand in hand with young love.

Not so anymore. Harry loves giving head, and every time he’s been given the opportunity he’s been imagining that he was doing it to Draco.

“Potter!” It sounds like a protest but Draco’s fingers have tangled in Harry’s hair. He forces Harry impossibly further onto his cock, even though he’s already sunk to the root, and Harry’s throat is working and he can’t _breathe_. It’s his ultimate snarky fantasy come true.

Draco’s thighs tremble madly for a moment and then he groans, losing control and coming down Harry’s throat in long delicious pulses. Harry swallows greedily, pulling off to breathe and going back to make sure he cleans it all up. Draco watches him, slouched and dazed.

It had taken maybe twenty seconds, which is hot as fuck as far as Harry is concerned only, if it was the only chance he was going to get, Harry can’t help but wish it had lasted longer. He wonders if Draco is embarrassed.

“I can _hear that_ , you know.”

Harry smirks and starts to tuck Draco away, but Draco shoves him aside, looking annoyed, and does it himself.

They sit in awkward silence and Draco drinks his coffee.

Harry’s not usually one for analysing sex afterwards. He’s hard enough to cut granite but not expecting Draco to reciprocate. He’s not going to break and run off to his room to take care of it by himself. He can’t help thinking about it though, about how good it would be with the still-fresh memory of Draco’s cock in his mouth, the taste of him lingering.

“Merlin Potter. Do you ever stop thinking about sex?” Draco says, his voice _almost_ its usual drawl. It’s a valiant attempt.

“Sorry.” Harry winces. It might be best if he goes to his room anyway and puts a few solid walls between them. Or… there is the third option of taking Draco to his room with him.

Draco turns to look squarely at him, his face flushed and resigned, and Harry realises it’s the closest to an invitation that he’s likely to get. He reaches out to touch, his fingertips touching Draco’s hair and his thumb caressing the sharp ridge of Draco’s jawbone, and kisses him.

Harry is hyperaware of his own stubble against perfectly smooth skin. He wonders if he will leave a mark and the thought drives him to kiss deeper. Harry pulls Draco to his feet so that he can get his arms around Draco and press their bodies together. He imagines leaving marks elsewhere on Draco’s perfect skin and it’s too much to resist, so he tilts Draco’s head aside and goes for his neck, suck-biting his way as Draco goes limp, allowing him access.  

Harry keeps going back to Draco’s mouth, and it’s better every time. His thumb brushes Draco’s ear, causing a whole body shudder.

“Are they more sensitive?” Harry whispers, pressing their foreheads together. He strokes over both ears with his thumbs.

“I just…” Draco looks wrecked, lips parted in a silent plea for more. “They’re sensitive,” he says, realising that Harry wants an answer. “But not more than normal.”

“And here?” Harry turns Draco’s arm, exposing the dark mark and bringing it to his lips. Draco gasps in surprise.

Harry rubs the edges of the mark with his fingers, all the while kissing and sucking it, making goosebumps break out over Draco’s skin. It’s addictive. He bites gently, mouthing over every inch and staking his claim.

“Merlin Potter,” Draco says, his voice strained, “He’s dead already. You killed him, remember?”

Harry moves his bites and kisses back up to Draco’s neck, tugging sharply at his hair, and that shuts him up.

“Harry?” It’s Hermione’s voice, like a bucket of ice water. Harry and Draco stagger apart, and Draco takes one look at Hermione’s head in the fireplace and flees.

Harry clears his throat. “Err.”

“Oh, sorry. I thought you weren’t…” Hermione winces in apology, although it looks suspiciously insincere to Harry. “It’s just that _we’re_ being hounded by the press now, since they can’t find you. Someone must have started a rumour that you’re here.”

“What?” Harry sits heavily and eyes Draco’s half-finished coffee. He doesn’t really like coffee but he drinks it anyway.

“The good news is that the pixie dust should wear off in a day or two,” Hermione says. “Malfoy’s magic should metabolize it. Sort of. That’s the best way I can explain it.”

“Great, okay. I’m sorry about the press.”

“Mmm. Well, the bad news is that Rita Skeeter managed to get hold of a decent photo of you two together and this morning’s Prophet has some… awkward headlines.”

“Oh Merlin. Let me see?”

Hermione holds up the newspaper. ‘Harry Potter and the Pureblood Prince’ the headline reads. There’s a blurred photo of him pulling Draco away by the hand, Draco panicked and looking around, and an even blurrier one of their collision just inside the field of lambent grass. The photo pauses at the point of collision over and over, which has the effect of making it look suspiciously like an impromptu embrace, if you stare at it for long enough.

“Shit,” Harry says, unable to take his eyes from the moving image.

“Sorry Harry,” Hermione says. She folds the paper and it disappears from view. “It’s all just speculation. Maybe if you lie low for a few days at Grimmauld Place it’ll all blow over.”

“Thanks Hermione, for, you know, looking up the potion and stuff too.”

Her smile is wide and generous, confirming all the things he loves about her. “That’s what friends are for.” She makes to close the connection but pauses to say, “Oh and Harry, good luck explaining it to Malfoy. Ron and I are here if you need us.”

Harry grimaces. “I know. Thanks.”

 

****

 

Draco is upstairs for ages and Harry starts to wonder what his mind-reading range is. Can Draco can hear his thoughts from upstairs? It starts to freak him out and he wishes Draco would come down again so they could just get it over with. He’s not sure what _it_ is.

He tries to makes himself busy moving things around in the kitchen, and he sends Hashtag, his barn owl, out for a copy of the Prophet.

The press seem to be hedging their bets, covering both the vague location of Harry’s hidden residence and Ron and Hermione’s place in Suffolk. He keeps checking, but they’re still there, like an infestation of doxies that just won’t quit.

After an hour or so, Kreacher makes a delicious-smelling cooked brunch and it lures Draco out of hiding. His ears have shrunk back to normal size and almost stopped glowing. He behaves with impeccable manners and they eat in near silence. It’s extremely awkward.

 When he can’t bear not knowing any longer, Harry says, “Can you, err... still, err…”

“Hear your thoughts?” Draco enquires, his usual bored and unimpressed demeanour back in force. It’s almost comforting. “No. Not unless your mind's been completely blank for the last five minutes.” He eyes Harry with a raised brow. “Which is, I suppose, a possibility,” he says, but softens the words with a cautious smile. Relief floods through Harry in a wave.

“Look, about before-”

“We can put it all down to the pixie dust Potter, don’t worry.” Draco piles bacon and fried mushrooms onto a neatly cut section of toast and spikes the pile with his fork, with great concentration.

“I don’t want to,” Harry says, and he doesn’t.

“Then what do you want?”

Harry grins. He can’t help it. Draco shoots him a scandalised side-glance but it’s all for show. “Are all Gryffindors secretly obsessed with sex?”

Draco’s left ear glows faintly with a residual gold but Harry doesn’t mention it.

After they’ve finished the food Harry goes up to his room and Draco follows him.

 

****

 

They’re lying together in a pool of sunlight when Hashtag delivers the Prophet. It’s Harry’s fault for training him to deliver weekend post directly to his bedroom.  

Draco steals the Prophet and starts to read.

“Oh yeah,” Harry says sheepishly, “I meant to tell you about that.”

Draco glances at him incredulously and continues to read.

“Hermione says we should lie low,” Harry says.

Draco ignores him until he’s finished reading. He rests the paper on the pale stubble-burnt skin of his belly and murmurs, “Honestly. For somebody who swallowed so many spell books as a child Granger can be incredibly stupid sometimes.”

“Oi!” Harry kicks him in the leg. Draco kicks back harder. “Hermione is _not_ stupid,” Harry says.

Draco rolls his eyes. “’Lying low’ would only fuel the rumours. If we disappeared together they’d have me up for kidnapping the Chosen One before you can say _Jack Sloper_.”

Harry glares at him.

“Although,” Draco says slowly, rolling onto his side and circling Harry’s nipple with a thoughtful finger, “Maybe Granger’s right and we should stay here for a _few_ days.”

Harry catches his hand and puts Draco’s fingers into his mouth. Draco groans and rolls onto him fully. Something sharp spikes Harry in the back. “Ow,” he complains, reaching behind him to find a silver coloured envelope that Hashtag must have delivered with the Prophet. Before he can throw it to the floor, Draco snatches it and sits up.

“Hey!” Harry says, “That’s _my_ post. Do you mind?”

Draco shushes him impatiently. “It’s an invitation to the opening of the Bowditch Gallery,” he says.

“Is it?”

Draco gives him an exasperated look. “Well yes. It’s the Bowditch family seal, see?” Draco traces his finger over the broken wax on the envelope. It might be a unicorn or a maypole. Harry can’t really make it out. “Your presence is requested… Guests to include Minister Shacklebolt, Celestina Warbeck… Blah, blah... This ticket admits Harry potter, _plus one_.”

Harry snorts. “I never take anyone to these things. There’s always Ron and Hermione to hang out with when I get there.”

Draco looks thoughtful. He lets the invitation drift to the bedroom floor and lays himself out in a pose that can only be interpreted as an invitation, stretching his arms overhead, hands held together, and giving Harry a _well?-what-are-you-waiting-for_ look.

He’s still wet and open. Harry slides into him easily and Draco bends up his legs. Harry holds his hands in place, pinned over his head, and proceeds to fuck him into the mattress, _again_. Harry is sluggishly aware, through the blinding, all-encompassing arousal, that he is the one who might be well and truly fucked in this scenario but he can’t make himself care at the moment.

Draco’s fading dark mark is on display, his face turning steadily pinker and sweatier where it’s trapped between his underarms. His eyes challenge Harry to do _more_ and his lips go tight in concentration. He wraps his lower legs around Harry’s back, capturing him and clamping them together hard, and Harry falls onto him with his whole bodyweight.

Draco hisses, “Come _on_ ,” in his ear, and Harry doubles his efforts, making sure to press their bodies together all the way down, so that Draco’s cock is trapped between them getting at least a little friction of its own. It takes a while but eventually Draco’s face goes clear, almost angelic, and Harry can’t hold back, couldn’t have if his life depended on it. He loses himself, buried to the hilt, as Draco pulses his release between them, his body clamping down greedily and milking Harry for all he’s worth.   

 

****

 

Neither of them bother to check if the press are still out there. They stay in bed for most of the day, dozing, and later, after Kreacher has made them some supper and broken into a fresh bottle of the Black Family Reserve at Draco’s insistence, Draco makes Harry ask him for it, the bastard.

Harry does, and then Draco makes him _beg_ , and only then will he allow Harry to go to his knees again, on the cold kitchen floor. And this time Harry makes it _last_.

 


End file.
